Everything Changed
by looseleaves
Summary: Jack Bing finds out some life-changing secrets about his absent father - the Bings some years later. Chapter 9 is up!
1. Just for a Moment

Quick Notes:  
1. Well, well, well. My first fanfiction. I'm probably doing this wrong. If so, then please feel free to slap me. Repeatedly. And then review this. I mean... er...

2. This won't all be in the form of essays by random members of the extended Bing family, worry ye not.

3. If you review this for me, then I'll love you forever, and we'll be destined to stay together ad infinitum. Just like Chandler and Monica.

4. The characters aren't mine. Yet. Although, negotiations _are_ in progress...

My Family  
by Jack Bing

A lot of people think that I have a strange family. Go on – say it. You know you want to. I don't mind.

Most people have got two parents, right? Not me. Technically, I've got four. Two mothers. Two fathers. But what I've learned from my family is that things often aren't as they seem when you first hear them. And, even though I've legally got four parents, I've only seen one of them in the last decade. That's my mom. Monica. But, technically (there's that word again), she isn't even related to me. That's because I'm adopted.

See, my mom and Chandler couldn't have their own kids. Please don't ask me why, because the explanation is horribly graphic and, when you take into consideration that you're talking about your _mother_, it makes you feel ill. Very ill. And my _real_ mother and father (from here on referred to as Erica and The Guy) _could_ have kids, but didn't want them. You can do the math – Monica and Chandler go to adoption agency, meet Erica (The Guy was out of the scene by then – once he'd made his – uh – donation, he wasn't a factor in the equation) and decide to take her kids. Easy.

And, as far as I know from my Aunt Rachel (Monica won't talk about it, however much I beg), it _was_ easy. At first, anyway. Monica and Chandler took me home to a house out of the city (as my Uncle Ross puts it, "They wanted me to grow up in the 1950s"), and we played happy families. According to Rachel, they were like the big love story at that point. Until everything went wrong.

I don't know the details, because no one ever tells me anything. Aunt Rachel (who isn't really my aunt, because she says she'll never marry my Uncle Ross – Monica's elder brother – just in case he sleeps with another photocopier with her belly pierced. Don't ask, because I have no idea either...) got close once, but then she refused to talk any more, no matter how much I told her I liked her dress. And they say flattery gets you anywhere. But, anyway. Back to the Rocky Horror Show.

Up until my fourth birthday, I had a mom and a dad and a birth mother who came to see me at Christmas. I can't remember back then – my aunt says I've got a selective memory; I block out what I don't want to know and only remember the good stuff. She says I was right to block out that particular year, because that's the year that it all went wrong, and Chandler walked out on us and the world turned upside-down. In a bad way.

Even though I haven't seen my father for ten years – or maybe _because_ I haven't seen my father for ten years – I hate every fibre of his body. I don't care what the circumstances were – all I know is that he left my mom to cope alone, and I can't forgive him for that. When I first found out that we _weren't_ a normal family, and that it was probably all his fault, I wanted to get out there, hunt him down, and kick his ass. Seriously.

My Aunt Phoebe was the one who talked some sense into me. She's another testament to my weird family – she isn't related to me at all. She isn't even related to my non-related mother. She's just a friend, but she's always wanted me to call her 'Cool Aunt Phoebe'. So I do. Partly to please her, and partly because she is. Phoebe's a bit of an... individual. Well, that's an understatement, but I don't want to sound harsh. She's a masseuse. And she believes in all of these strange things that I can't even start to go into. But, for some inexplicable reason, she's the only person that understands me.

We hang out a lot, my fake-Aunt Phoebe and I. Anyway, she told me that I couldn't possibly begin to understand it – that _she_ couldn't possibly begin to understand it (even though she had fully already told me just a few weeks beforehand that she knew all the secrets of the universe), but that Chandler didn't deserve getting his ass kicked. Much.

So I didn't go and chase him with a Glock or anything. Life went on, and gradually, my burning hatred dulled into a fact of life – something that was always there, but that no longer bothered me on a regular basis.

But, enough about Chandler. I don't think he's really worth the ink this is taking up. And I don't want to talk about Erica (the one that I lived in for nine months – remember?) or The Guy, because they're just supporting characters that disappear early on in the story of my life. When they gave me up, they also gave up the rights to a main part in my essay. It's as simple as that.

I'm going to write about Monica. Mom. Mommy when I was younger. She's beautiful – there's no denying that. When I was a small kid, I thought that everyone just had an attractive mother and nothing else. We'd got along fine like that – why would anyone else need any extras? Then I got to school and I found out that – hey, not all parents look like glamour models – and – bam, most people have a mom _and_ a dad.

It didn't really bother me, though, because I had Monica, and she was better than any of my other three parents (I know I said I wouldn't mention them again, but it's just in passing, and we can pretend it never happened if you like...). What is Monica like? Well, the first thing that I can say is that my mom is something of a control freak. And she's a _tiny_ bit overprotective (read: SUPER overprotective to the extent that she won't let you _talk_ to someone at school before she's met their parents, had dinner with them and researched their family history on the internet just in _case_ there might have been, I don't know, a mass murderer in the family three hundred years ago or something).

Slight over-exaggeration. But only slight.

Back to the controlling thing. She has every single tiny aspect of my life planned out, I swear. If I get home and tell her, I don't know, that I've got the lead in the school play (ha! Like _that_ would ever happen!), then she'll congratulate me and everything, but she'll seem like she already _knew_... it's creepy. I think she has some sort of a sixth sense. Or is it seventh? I can never remember how many senses we have – Biology isn't my strong point.

Anyway. Now I come to think of it, there's only _one _part of me that my mom can't control, and it's something that it really annoys her not to be able to change. I'm fat. Not obese or anything – just comfortably chubby. I could blame it on bad genes, I guess – "No wonder Erica & The Guy didn't want me to stick around – they must have known I'd end up like this..." – but there's no point, because it's all to do with the amount of food I cram into my mouth. It's probably Monica's fault – being a chef, and all. When I was a kid, she used to delight in giving me hundreds of delicious (and highly calorific) snacks every day. That is, until she realised the consequences. By then, it was too late. Yep – that's right. I've never experimented with drugs, alcohol, or cigarettes (only the cool kids have the right to dabble in illegal substances), but I'm _totally_ addicted to food.

Mom can't handle it. Once, in the middle of a screaming argument we had about it (and, trust me, we have a _lot_ of those), she sat down suddenly and said, "Look, sweetie, I just don't want you to end up like me.". That one threw me, I have to admit. I replied, "What? A single mother?", and she smiled, and the argument just... stopped, which was something of a disappointment, because I live for the muffins she bakes when she's guilty for yelling at me. I mean, if I'm hungry, I'll just accuse her of something ("Mom! Did you steal the half-eaten corndog I left in the bottom of my school bag for emergencies again?"). Just for the muffins.

But all that particular argument left me with was curiosity about what she could have meant. To this day, I still haven't found out. But it's okay, because she started making muffins again straight after our next argument.

Now, muffins I can handle. Muffins I _adore_. Cookies are a different story. When Mom starts on cookies, you _know_ it's bad. She never cries – when I asked Phoebe why that was, she said, "She was never like that before, Jackie." – (she calls me Jackie even though I keep telling her it's a girl's name) – "It only started when—"... and then she broke off, and started talking about the day her mother stuck her head in the oven again. Which would have been totally interesting at any other moment except that one.

Mom can't bottle everything up though, so instead of doing the normal thing, she bakes cookies. The more she bakes, the sadder she is. Pretty much all I can remember from right after Chandler left is the cookies. Hundreds of them every day, although my mind might be exaggerating a bit there.

I guess those must have been her worst days, and I know that she only kept going for me. Which is a really good thing, or I'd be stuck with four technical parents and no real ones – only two aunts that weren't really aunts and an equally useless uncle. Thank God _that_ didn't happen – I'm messed up enough as it is.

So, to conclude, my point is, (bet you didn't think I had one of those...), I suppose, that you don't need four parents to survive. You don't need three. You don't even need two. All you need is one. Sometimes, I think that my mother is the strongest woman anywhere. But that scares me. Because even the strongest people break sometimes – and what happens when Monica breaks, and the weight of the world comes tumbling down to shatter on the floor? I don't know. I don't think I want to know.

By Jack Bing.

_just for a moment  
__everything i treasured was gone  
__just for a moment  
__i faced my life alone_

_oh how i love you_

_just for a moment  
__the world was full of pain  
__just for a moment  
__my luck had finally run out_

There is more. Lots more. But I'll only post it if you review, so press that little button and make my day. I mean... er... obviously I'm not sad enough to have my day made by someone reviewing this, but... yeah. Go review. Shoo.


	2. Rapid Hope Loss

Wee – a second chapter. Those of you who reviewed, I love you. The engagement rings are in the post – I hope you don't mind signing a pre-nuptial agreement saying that I get 100% of your cash when we divorce, right?

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Le sob.

* * *

_You called to say you wanted out.  
__Well, I can't say I blame you now.  
__Sometimes you've got to fold  
__before you're found out.  
__Well thanks for waiting this long to show yourself._

_Cause now that I can see you,  
__I don't think you're worth a second glance._

_

* * *

_

"Happy Birthday, Jackie!" says Phoebe, holding something behind her back and trying to look innocent.

"My birthday isn't for another week," I reply. "And what've you got behind your back?"

"I know that," she says, deliberately avoiding my question and turning around so that I can't see the slip of paper she's holding. "But this is your... um... Phoeb-day."

Needless to say, I am nonplussed. Even after fifteen years of Aunt Phoebe, she still scares me. A lot. So I decide to be tactful. "What the hell are you talking about?" Just call me Mr Discretion.

"Oh, yes." She smiles. "I could see how that could seem a little strange to you." Got it in one. "I've got a little – uh – presenty... thing. For you."

"And you're not giving it to me on the traditional birthday _because_...?" I ask.

"Oh. Yeah. _Mainly_ because your mom would kill me if I gave it to you. And also partly because Phoeb-day is a really cool word."

"Okay..." Regardless of my admiration for my aunt, I am slightly apprehensive. Last year, she gave me a rabbit's foot for my birthday. From a _real_ rabbit. She says it died of old age, but _still_...

"Here!" she says, and whips the piece of paper from behind her back with a flourish.

"Gosh," I say, trying my hardest not to be sarcastic. "A piece of _paper_! I've always wanted one of those! Thanks, Aunt Pheebs!" Okay. Maybe I'm not trying my _hardest_ not to be sarcastic. But I _am_ trying. A bit.

She rolls her eyes and places it into my hand. "Well, obviously it's not _just_ paper."

"Obviously," I mutter under my breath, turning it over. She's right – it's a photograph. Not a photograph that she was particularly fond of, if the coffee stains and ink scribbles are anything to go by, but a photograph all the same. It's of a group of six people sitting on a sofa. They're all drinking coffee and laughing hysterically – I wonder whether caffeine isn't the _only_ drug they've been loading into their bloodstream. If you know what I mean.

"Who are these people?" I ask, although I already know the answer to four of them.

"Well, _that_—" she points to a pretty blonde in the foreground. "— is your Cool Aunt Phoebe. Isn't she pretty?" She pauses, gesturing to a dark haired serious guy in a suit. "That's your uncle. Ross. And the one who's lying on him is Rachel. And there's Monica. Your Mom. In the corner there. See?"

I nod. "It's hardly 'Where's Waldo'."

So that leaves two people unaccounted for. One of them must be him. Chandler. I scrutinize their tiny ink faces – one is dark, striking. Handsome. Italian, at a guess. The other is pulling a stupid face. From what I've heard, my father was not dark. Or striking. Or handsome. So he's probably the goof sitting at my mother's feet. The placement is probably symbolic, but I'm not in a particularly philosophic mood right now. Actually, I don't think I've _ever_ been in a particularly philosophic mood. But, I digress.

I look up at Phoebe, who's got a daft grin on her face. She always wears that look when she reminisces about what she calls 'the easy days'. I always tell her that she's crazy – that her life's hardly difficult now, what with her only working when she feels like it, and her husband's job having her set up for life. She ruffles my hair and tells me that money isn't everything. She's blatantly lying.

"That's him, isn't it?" I breathe, my voice a semi-tone lower than usual. I place my finger on his stupid smirk, trying to block him out. This is the first picture I've seen of the man I referred to as "Daddy" for the first four years of my life.

Phoebe nods. "The other one's Joey. He's the guy that Chandler went to live with in LA after... it... happened. But that isn't all."

"It's not?" My heart is thudding in my throat even as I tell myself that he's not worth it – that he's just the bastard that walked out on my mother.

"Turn the paper over, honey."

I do as she says, and notice a collection of letters and numbers hastily scribbled with a blunt pencil on the back. An address. A Los Angeles address. _His_ address.

She doesn't bother to explain to me what this is – what this means. She knows that the implications will have already hit me. She smiles at me, and drapes her arm around my neck. "I know your head is probably spinning right now—" (You think?) "—but you've got to promise me three things, Jackie."

"Okay." My voice is still deeper than usual. You wait fifteen years for puberty to finally hit you, and then it happens twice. Oh, joy.

"Number one – _never_—" she places extra emphasis on this word. "— _ever_ tell your mother about this. _Ever_. Number two – don't hurt your father and number three—"

"Back up there!" I interrupt. "Don't _what_? Don't _hurt_ the asshole? Oh, yeah. Sure. Like he never hurt _us_?"

She shrugs. "Whatever. And number three – promise me that you'll celebrate your Phoeb-day every year."

"Sure," I murmur, barely hearing her words. This is it; this is where he lives. This is the time to get the answers – to understand the truth – to finally find out what _happened_ ten years ago. "I'm a little scared," I confess.

She smiles. "I know. Y'know – been there, done that. My dad walked out on us, too, Jackie. And then my grandma gave me his address-" She broke off, and added, "That was before she died, y'know?"

"Really?" I ask incredulously, rolling my eyes. "'Cause there was me thinking that a dead lady was going around giving out the addresses of random estranged fathers."

She continues as if she hasn't heard me – selective hearing, my Aunt Phoebe. "I was too... you know... freaked out by the thought of it being _him_. Y'know – my _Dad_. I couldn't go and see him. I guess you're pretty freaked out too, right?" She looks over at me, and I nod. "Okay," she continues. "Then write him a letter! Tell him – tell him how you feel."

So I do.

* * *

_So much for all the promises you made, they served you well  
__and now you're gone and they're wasted on me._

_So much for your endearing sense of charm, it served you well  
__and now it's gone and you're wasted on me._

* * *

Chandler M. Bing,  
5005 Wilshire Boulevard,  
Los Angeles,  
California 90536

Dear Mr Bing,

Hey, Mr Bing. Chandler. Chandler Bing. Did you know that you have a stupid name? You probably do – I guess you probably got teased for it at school just the way that I do. For Bing, I mean. My name isn't Chandler – but, hey. You knew that. You helped to choose my name.

Mom doesn't use Bing any more – after you walked out, she changed her name back to Geller. She didn't want to be reminded of you, see. She wanted to change my surname too, but I have to wait until I'm sixteen. Just one more year to go before I'm free of the chains you've been holding me in throughout my life. I can't wait.

Do you even know that I'm fifteen now? Well, almost. It's my birthday next week, but I'm not holding out for a present. When I was younger – five or six, maybe – I'd sit on the doorstep waiting for the mailman to come. He always knew what I was hoping for, and he'd shake his head and ruffle my hair while I broke down into tears. I only gave up on you while I was ten and I realised that you weren't worth the pain.

How hard would it have been for you to have sent me a card? Just a card – letting me know that you're there, you're alive – that you still care about me. Or a present? I know you had a decent job when you left us – I would have worshipped any present you would have sent me, however small, however insignificant. So why didn't you send one? Were you really that busy?

It's stupid, I know – but even now, when the post comes and there's an envelope addressed to me in an unfamiliar hand, my heart leaps. I think that maybe, just maybe, it's from you. You know what? It never is.

Maybe you think about me sometimes. Maybe you really do care about me, but you're just... busy. You've been busy working all this time, and now that you've made enough money to be a proper Dad, you're going to come back laden with presents and everything will be normal again. We'll be a normal family.

Am I kidding you here? I'm definitely not kidding myself.

I want to make something straight early on – you had your chance and you _blew it_. In those first years – those first ten years – if you'd contacted me, then I swear I would have forgiven you. I would have acted like you'd never gone. But you didn't. Why didn't you? That's what I want to know – I don't want to give you a second chance, but I want to know _why_. Was it my fault? Was I a horrible son and you can't stand to be around me? Or are you just a coward who hurt my mom and got scared to come back?

Mom didn't give me your address. She doesn't know that I have your address. If you tell her that I contacted you, or bother her in _any way_, I promise you that I'll do what I promised Phoebe I wouldn't. I will kill you, man. Phoebe's the one who gave me this address. It should have been you. You should have initiated this conversation – not me. But you didn't.

And I won't forgive you. I won't. I know I'm repeating myself here, but I don't care. Maybe if I say it over and over again until my head starts to hurt, then you'll understand. Maybe I'll understand.

I saw a photo of you for the first time today. You're nothing special. You're not good enough to break her heart.

I don't have much else to say. I'm wasting my time on you enough as it is, because I know you'll never reply to this letter. You'd think that in fifteen years, you would have found the time to contact me, but... I don't know.

Maybe in another decade, when you're an old man, I'll write to you again. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll play with you like you played with me and we'll see how much you like your little game when it's acted out the opposite way around. Maybe it won't be so much fun this time. For you, I mean.

I'm going now. Mom's calling me – she needs my help with something. And I'll go to her. Because I love her. If you had _ever_ loved her, you would have rushed straight to her side when she needed it. She needed you a lot, you know. She needed you a lot, but you were never there. _I _was the only one there. I had to be the man.

And, you know what? I'm probably more of a man than you'll _ever_ be.

Your son,

Jack Bing.

* * *

_Hey dad. I'm writing to you  
__Not to tell you that I still hate you -  
__Just to ask you how you feel  
__And how we fell apart - how this fell apart  
__Are you happy out there in this great wide world?  
__Do you think about your sons?  
__Do you miss your little girl?  
__When you lay your head down, how do you sleep at night?  
__Do you even wonder if we're all right?_

_We're alright  
__We're alright_

_It's been a long hard road without you by my side  
__Why weren't you there all the nights that we cried?  
__You broke my mother's heart; you broke your children for life  
__It's not OK, but we're alright  
__I remember the days you were a hero in my eyes  
__But those were just a long lost memory of mine  
__I spent so many years learning how to survive  
__Now I'm writing just to let you know that I'm still alive_

* * *

Oh, the questions left unanswered. Why did Chandler walk out and never come back – is there something we're not being told? Will his son and wife ever forgive him? Is there a chance of Mondler ever getting back together? Review, and you might find out ;-)


	3. Halfway To The Bottom

Eek! I... er... may have forgotten about this – I'm sorry! Here's Part 3 to make up for it! Please read, review and all that good stuff.

_  
They aren't twenty-somethings any more, and they're both tactfully pretending that they haven't noticed the grey hairs and laughter lines each seems to be cultivating – but they still know how to Have A Good Time. At least, they think they do – but, once every few months, they find it reassuring to make sure that they haven't lost the knack._

_Both blanketed by a warm cloud of alcohol, they stumble along the sidewalk towards the car they left parked there three hours ago. His wife is always warning him to get a cab if he's had a couple, but at this point in the evening (lovingly christened 'Stage Three: The One Before You're Paralytic' by the two), he doesn't remember his wife's advice. He doesn't even remember that he has a wife._

_They throw themselves into the leather front seats, midway through a slurred debate over the advantages of the male and female reproductive systems in practical situations, and he isn't paying attention as he presses all of the buttons on his dashboard in turn until the car starts making noises._

_

* * *

_

"Mom..." I drum my fingers on the desk absent-mindedly. "Do you ever... uh..." – I consider how to approach the question gently – "...hate me because I'm not your real son?" Okay. Screw 'gently'.

She looks up and smiles guardedly, but I can tell by her eyes that she's alarmed. (I can read her like a book – and she's way easier to understand than all that Shakespeare stuff.) "What do you mean, honey?" she asks, her voice too loud and her smile too fake. "You _are_ my real son! You know that!"

Uh. Sure.

"Legally, yeah. But biologically?" I shrug. "Not so much. We're unrelated, mom. Different genes. DNA and stuff." I raise my wrist and she meets it unblinkingly. "See? Different blood."

My mouth is dry, but one look at Monica's face tells me that this probably isn't the best time to nip down to the nearest Seven Eleven and grab a Coke. So I continue. "It's just..." (my voice cracks slightly, and I'm tempted to make a quick run to the fridge) "... I just wanted to know whether you feel you could – you feel you could... love me... more. If you'd carried me for nine months and given birth to me and known... known that I was _yours_. If you could have held me in your arms and _known_ that I didn't belong to anyone else."

"Shit—" (she stops herself, always unwilling to swear in front of me). "Come on, Jack! You _are_ mine."

  
You're either dipping your toe, or you're drowning  
You're either dipping your toe, or you're drowning  
Is it better never to start, than to bear the pain of having to stop?

Her face is drained of all blood and, normally, I'd make a cross with my fingers and lock away all of the garlic. Only, somehow, I have this feeling that it's not the right moment.

"I'm not," I reply, calmer than I sound. "There are these, like, _parts_ of me in other places... with other people... and however much I try to leave them behind, I _can't_. And it's pushing me away from you... from everyone."

My eyes prickle with tears. Way to be the man of the house, Mr Bing.

* * *

"_Whoa, dude!" giggles his friend, crushed against the window as they take the more liberal approach to corners._

_His eyes are starting to glaze over, and his head has doubled in weight over the last five minutes. "Stage Four," he informs his friend through cracked lips, allowing his eyelids to droop slightly. "Jus' five more minutes, man," he mumbles, gesturing emphatically. "Jus' five more minutes, then I swear I'll get t' work." The car swerves, narrowly missing a road sign._

"_Just a couple more blocks, man," his friend says. "Only... a... a couple more. They're gon' be wondering where we are..." He giggles at an unspoken joke. "A couple more blocks and we c'n go to bed."_

"_Together?"_

_

* * *

_

_Halfway to the bottom;  
Instantly forgotten_

__

__

"I don't understand," she whispers, wiping away a tear which has found its way (don't ask me how) onto my cheek. "What do you mean, Jack? What's brought this on?"  
  
"I mean..." I begin, not entirely certain of _what_ I mean, but damn sure that I mean _something_. "I mean that... my birth parents. Erica and The Guy, you know? Part of me was left behind when you and..." I pause, unwilling to shape the unfamiliar sounds with my mouth – it's been a banned word for as long as I can remember. "When you and _Chandler_" – she flinches slightly – "took me home. And then he left! And he took another part of me with him, and it's like... these are pieces of me that I'm never going to get back, however much I want them." I pause. "You get me?"

I never thought it would come so easy;  
I never thought it would go so quickly  
Is it safer never to love than to risk your heart having to lose?

She sits down on the sofa, head in hands. And I'm scared. I've never seen her look so vulnerable before. I don't want my world to fall apart. I don't want everything I know to fall to pieces. I don't want things to go wrong for me. Me. Me. Christ. I'm so selfish. It's her. Her. It's always her.

"Look. Forget it, Mom. It was just..." For once in my life, I can't find the words. "... I was just..." I allow the sentence to trail off, wimping out of finding a likely excuse in the hope that Monica's imagination will do the job for me.

She doesn't look up.

Damn. I might have to actually _say_ something.

"And... I... I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for mentioning it... y'know – _his _name. I'm an idiot." You said it, Jack.

* * *

"_You're goin' too fast, man! I swear... I swear you're meant to, like," (a snigger) "slow down before you stop or something, right?"_

"_Sure," he replies, allowing his leaden foot to rest on the nearest peddle. The car screeches to a halt, the back wheels momentarily leaving the ground. _

"_How m'ny more blocks, dude?" he asks, resting his head on his arms and gingerly tapping the gas with his big toe._

"_Uh... it's hard. Y'know, when I don't have a map to... like... get into." His friend peers into the distance as the car speeds up. "Hey, there's something ahead, man!" A small black figure is silhouetted by the headlights of an approaching car. "Shit! Stop, man! We're gonna hit it! Shit!"_

* * *

_Halfway to the bottom;  
Instantly forgotten.  
I don't know which way to go..._

_  
  
_She swallows. "Look, honey. Maybe... maybe someday we can talk about this – about him, but not now, okay? It... still hurts. It hurts way too much for me to be able to handle this conversation. It's better this way. You know? No contact with him." 

Sure, Mom. No contact with him. No contact _at all_. Except for that letter I just wrote, obviously. Oops.

She brushes the tears from her eyes (which are unattractively red and puffy – I decide not to inform her of this fact), and swallows. "Sweetie, I would _love_ to stay here and... and talk..."

"_But_?" I interject.

She smiles weakly. "How'd you know that was coming?"

"Just a trick Phoebe told me," I shrug. "But what?"

"I need to pick Anthony up from the airport..." She pauses, watching my face for a reaction.

Anthony. The Boyfriend. Oh, joy.

"Um. Okay," I mutter, reservedly neutral. I'm always trying to be neutral. I'm Switzerland. "Whatever."

* * *

_  
He sees it a fraction too late, his alcohol-torn instincts making him sluggish as his foot fumbles for the brake and misses, hitting the accelerator with all his force. The car hurtles forwards – faster and faster and faster –_

– _and faster and faster – and a sickening scream and a thud – and a thud – and a crash – and then it's gone and they're blanketed in darkness. _

_Is it wiser never to speak  
than to raise your voice, and never be heard?_

_

* * *

_

I'm sorry that this is a bit short (it should be novel length considering the amount of time it took me to write), but the quicker you review, the quicker I'll get the next part up! (;


	4. Chapter Three and a Half

I would like to begin this chapter by announcing to the world that I am an idiot. Seriously. This is not Chapter 4 – this is actually Chapter 3 and a half. Which is a nice way of saying that I forgot to include this bit in the last chapter. Feel free to laugh at me, do. So, this is Chapter 3.5 – just pretend it's on the end of the last one!

* * *

So, Monica leaves the house in my Uncle Ross's car – she knows how to drive, but she's scared of it. My mother is a huge coward – she won't ever try anything new, and she's petrified of death (which, now I come to think of it, is probably quite sensible. But, whatever).

The second she's out of the door, the phone begins to ring. I hate phones.

They freak me out – I need to be able to see a person's eyes to know what they really mean when they say something, and unless you've got some kind of video phone (which we haven't, but which would be really cool...), there's no way of knowing. Someone could be ringing to tell me something awful, and I wouldn't have any way of knowing that it was coming before they said it, because I wouldn't be able to see their eyes. Because of that, when the phone rings, I always assume that it's bad news.

Did I mention that I'm also a huge pessimist?

Accordingly, my stomach lurches as I reach to pick up the receiver. By this point, I've convinced myself that it's the paramedics phoning to tell me that Mom's had an accident and died. Seriously, my mind sucks.

"H-hello?" I stammer, my voice far higher than normal. Oh, joy. I sound like a girl. A seven-year-old girl. Great first impression, Jack.

"Hello." It's a woman (the horror!). She's British. And she's pissed. (I tend to have that effect on women).

There's an awkward pause. I'm okay – my whole life has been made up of awkward pauses and awkward conversations. Hers obviously hasn't – she breaks first. "May I – er – talk to your Daddy, please, dear?"

Daddy? _Dear_?

"_I'm_ the man of the house," I say, crisply. "Anything you can say, you can say to me."

"I need to talk to a Mr. Chandler Bing, please."

Crap. I did _not_ see that one coming. Obviously, the sensible option would be to tell her that there's no one of that name living at this house – that there hasn't been in the last ten years, and to put down the phone.

"Uh – who's calling?" I ask. (I said it was the sensible option – I didn't actually say that I was going to _take_ it...)

"DC Briggs. Of the London Metropolitan Police-" (Shit.) "-I need to talk to Mr Bing about his arrest and subsequent charges of ten years ago."

_Shit._

"The charges of death by dangerous driving and possible manslaughter," she says slowly, as if talking to an idiot. Which I suppose she is.

Time to be mature. Time to be the man. Time to be an adult. I do what any mature adult would – I slam down the phone and close my eyes. What the hell is going on here?

* * *

So, that was Chapter Three and a Half – or, as its working title indicated, "The Chapter Where Jack Gets A Phone Call From The Police Telling Him About Chandler's Charges". I've never been one for short and succinct, really.

If you read this part (and the last) carefully, you should be able to guess the answer to your questions...


	5. I Want To Hear You Sad

Ah. Apparently it's a month since I last updated this – you're probably waiting for a pathetically thin excuse. Luckily, I have three. Firstly, I lost the notebook that I write everything down in (the fact that it turned up two weeks later _exactly_ where I left it is irrelevant – I believe that someone broke into our house, stole it for a while, and then put it back – and as soon as I can work out _why_, I'm going straight to the police!). Secondly, I've had a _lot_ of homework. Which sucks. And thirdly... I had a difficult decision to make after this chapter (when you read the end of this part – which you shouldn't skip to straight away now that I've said this – you'll realise what the decision is), and I wanted to prevaricate. So, anyway. Feeble excuses. Here's a chapter, with love. Do forgive me.

* * *

_These eyes are strongly covered in disguise  
__We're waiting on the real  
__Time again, you'll see that no one knows for sure_

__

I should write one of those self-help books, I really should. You know – 'Life for Dummies', or 'Coping With the Day-to-Day Traumas of Teenage Existence' by Jack Bing. Chapter One – 'So, your father's a murderer.'

Although, of course, he isn't _technically_ my father (and I don't actually know for sure whether he actually _is_ a murderer – I mean, I'm sure that there are any _number_ of Chandler Bings who have lived in New York at some point in the last decade. In my house.). And I'm not even sure if the killer trait is passed down generation to generation anyway. But, still. For some reason, I didn't guess that this was the big secret everyone was keeping from me (well, really. It's not exactly the _first_ explanation that leaps into your mind, is it?).

"Jackie!" shouts Phoebe right in my ear, and tweaks my nose. Hard.

"What?" I ask, looking (what I assume to resemble) hurt and indignant.

"Is everything okay?"

Oh, sure. Everything's _just_ fine. Spring is in the air, the little bunny rabbits are being born, and – oh, yeah – my Dad's a serial killer (probably). "Uh..." I consider asking her whether you can inherit the psychopath gene from someone without actually being _related_ to them – but I figure that there might be a _tiny_ chance that she'd guess what I was talking about (or possibly not – Phoebe's not always lightning fast on the uptake). "...Sure."

"You're not worried about anything?"

I try my best to look sincere (fully aware that I probably resemble the lovechild of a ferret and a constipated warthog). "Nope... Why?" (I'm so daring).

"Oh, no reason. It's just that I was – y'know – cleansing your aura –" (as you do) "- and you didn't seem to notice."

I feign interest. "Oh, no. I totally noticed. It's great. Really... er... clean." (Does that mean it was dirty to begin with? How does one go about dirtying an aura in the first place, anyway? Someone should write a book on it. I'd buy it.)

She beams. "That'll be six hundred dollars, then!"

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

* * *

_For all of this, I'm better off without you  
__Do you regret all your loneliness?  
_

__

Phoebe scribbles something down onto a pad of paper (which she's been sitting on and thinking that I can't see for most of the afternoon). I'm torn – if I ask, I'll probably live to regret it, but if I don't, I'll be wondering about it all day. And, obviously, I have way more important things to worry about. Like having a psychotic axe murderer for a (adopted) father (which, if you ask me, is more than enough to be getting on with).

"What're you writing, Pheebs?"

"An epic sonnet. About you." Yeah – there you go. I was right. Already regretting it. She pauses, and sucks her pencil for a second before recoiling and spitting it out in disgust. "Yuck – lead!" (Ever the intellectual, is Phoebe.) "Anyway. What rhymes with 'what did you write in that letter to Chandler, Jack'?"

Oh, she's sneaky – I'll give her that. "You could try 'mind your own business, not-so-cool Aunt Phoebe," I mutter.

She stares at me, aghast. "Take that back, young man! I'm totally cool!" She pauses. "You're going to tell me, though. You always do – I know you well, Jack Bing."

She's probably right – but there's no way in hell I'm going to admit that to her face. "This is different, Pheebs!" I whine.

"No, it's not! It's the _rule_!" she cries.

The _rule_? I shrug. Probably something she picked up at the massage parlour (and, when you consider the kinds of things you _could_ pick up at a massage parlour, I'd say she got off pretty lightly...). "What rule?" I ask, fully aware that my life would be simple and carefree if I learned to keep my mouth shut once in a while. But, still. Where would the fun be in that?

"Have you never watched TV, Jackie?" she asks, exasperated. I don't answer – it's a ridiculous question, since we're watching television as we speak (reruns of some old sitcom, but I'm not paying attention). Phoebe seems to have an uncanny knack for missing the blindingly obvious – it's a skill I hope she'll teach me one day. "The person who gives the contact details of the estranged father to the kid becomes their confidante – which, by the way, is a really cool word-" (because _that's_ the issue here) "-and guides them through life! If you're going to do the whole angsty teen thing, then you're really gonna have to do the background research, Jack!" She cracks me over the head with her notepad.

"Can you sum up what just happened, please?" I ask wearily. "I think my brain just exploded."

"No, Jack!" she replies, seriously. "When your brain explodes, you _die_." I stare at her. "Oh, okay," she continues. "Yeah. I get it. You weren't being serious." (You think?) "Basically, you're going to tell me what you said to him anyway, so we might as well get it over with now and cut out the crap."

"You have such an elegant way of putting things," I tell her. "I just made it clear to him that he's – y'know – missed his chance. For being a dad. And that I don't need him."

"Is that true?" (No. Obviously I'm making it all up.) "Do you really not need him?"

"I've managed alright for the last ten years, Pheebs!"

She tilts her head to one side. "True. And you've got your Cool Aunt Phoebe instead, haven't you?"

"And your Cool Aunt Rachel!" a disembodied voice cries from the master bedroom. "I'm always there for you too, Jack!"

Okay. Either Phoebe's got a ghost who's giving me its vote of support, or Rachel's been listening into our conversation. Well – it _is_ almost Halloween...

"How long has she been in there?" I question Phoebe (I've decided to assume that it's Rachel – it's the only sensible option. Phoebe would_ never_ allow a ghost to hang out in her apartment – she would naturally have exorcised it. Does she think I haven't noticed the 'Be Your Own Ghost Hunter' kit she keeps in the fridge?)

Phoebe shrugs. "She's getting ready for dinner with her boss in there."

"And that takes three hours?" I ask incredulously.

"Hey!" calls Rachel. "If you want me to get fired for wearing last season's clothes, then fine!"

I roll my eyes. "Great. So now someone else knows about my secret letter."

"Oh, no. It's okay. She already knew. I told her," Phoebe says, matter-of-factly.

Oh. Okay. Because obviously _that_ makes it better. "Phoebe! I thought you were my confidante!"

She smiles innocently. "Yeah. But I've always wanted to be a double agent, too! Don't deny me my lifelong ambition, Jack!"

* * *

_This ride is drifting slowly to the side;  
__We're swerving off the road  
__Going past the cones  
__that warned us from the start  
_

__

The phone rings, and Phoebe makes a lunge for it, tripping over her own feet, and landing flat on her face. "_What?_" she asks, as I smirk. "I had a feeling it was someone special ringing!"

"Sure. And when _someone special_ phones, the _normal_ thing to do is throw yourself onto the ground in appreciation, is it?"

"Maybe not for _you_," she retorts haughtily. "But for _some_ people, this-" she waves an arm around "-is a symbol of respect."

"Oh, yeah?" I ask, glad for the change of topic from my letter to Chandler. "Who would that be, then?"

Phoebe is rescued from answering by Rachel, who emerges from her bedroom half-dressed (score! It's alright to admire your aunt if she isn't a blood relation, right? And, of course, when I say 'admire', I really mean 'drool over like a dog'. I am a sick, sick man). "Hel-_lo_!" she cries. "Telephone! Ringing! Someone! Answer!" She is partially distracted by Phoebe's splayed form on the carpet (if someone got a piece of chalk out and drew round her, then we could make our own low-budget cop show). "Pheebs... what're you doing?"

"Showing her admiration for whoever's ringing us, apparently," I remark dryly.

"Oh," says Rachel. "_Oh_." She is, of course, pretending to understand in order not to hurt Phoebe's feelings (once you've known my aunt for some time, you get used to doing this – it becomes almost second nature). She turns her attention back to the frantically ringing phone. "I'm... uh... going to get this... you two can just... carry on with whatever the hell it is you're doing." She picks it up, turning away from us and shaking her head – I get that reaction from women a lot. "Hello?"

There's a long pause. Phoebe picks herself up from the ground and starts talking to me, but I barely notice – I'm more intrigued by the contorted expression on Rachel's face. Something about it stops me from leaning forwards and telling her that, if the wind changes, she'll stay like that – I stare at her, captivated by an intuition that something's wrong (and, yes, I get the same feeling every time the telephone rings, but this time, it's different. This time, it's real). Not just Ross calling to ask if she needs more bananas from the supermarket – not Emma (my 16-year-old cousin) asking if she can spend the night at a friend's house. This is something big – and I'm petrified.

Rachel puts the phone down wordlessly, the crash cutting through the silence and causing me to jump. She turns to me, and I notice that her cheeks are streaked with tears and that's what makes me certain that this isn't a dress rehearsal - that this is where I have to finally grow up and be the man.

"Oh, God," she whimpers, taking a step towards me – instinct tells me to turn and run – run home, and lock myself in my bedroom. But I don't. I'm an idiot. I just stand there, my mouth hanging open like some kind of sick puppet, and I let her tell me. "Oh God, Jack," she gasps, her voice wavering like an opera singer struggling to reach the top notes. "It's... it's Monica. I'm... I'm so sorry..."

Everything stops.

* * *

_For all of this, I'm better off without you  
__Do you regret all your loneliness?  
_

Dun dun DUN! Please review and such, and have a nice day!


	6. Take Me Home

Oh, stop complaining, all of you (well, I don't actually _know_ whether you're complaining or not. But you might be...). This update didn't take _nearly_ as long as the last one... did it? No. It didn't. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: NBC have stopped returning my calls. None of it's mine. Except.. no. Nothing.

* * *

_Every day, keep making the same mistakes  
__Once again, I find myself in the same old place  
__And I'm wandering, wondering where to turn  
__There's a dead end straight ahead  
__Won't you take me home?_

I hate hospitals. All hospitals – not just this one. No big shocker there, though. Add a dying mother to any building and it suddenly loses any appeal it might have had (which, incidentally, is the first thing you should bear in mind when you're trying to sell your house...). It's not just that, though – although that's probably enough to be getting on with – it's the white. They paint everything in the damn building white. Walls, floors... beds... if someone lies still for too long, they probably get the nearest nurse to give them a quick once over with a paintbrush and a dab of white paint.

I mean, why white? Don't they know that everything shows up on white? Come on – it's your basic rule! Blood is red. Red is darker than white. That means that any blood that might be... you know... splattered over the waiting room walls (don't even _ask_ how it gets there – the people waiting in here probably get so sick of hanging around that they start slitting their wrists. Or each other's) is going to look even worse than it would do on dark walls!

You'd think that the doctors would realise this and hire a decorator or something (you know – when they're not busy saving lives or sleeping with the nurses or whatever it is that they do which keeps them from thinking about interior design).

I tap my fingers absent-mindedly on the hard plastic chair I'm sitting on. That's another thing that bugs me – the chairs. They _know_ that people are going to be sticking around here for some time (hence 'waiting room' and not just 'casually passing through room'), so why don't they invest in some more comfortable furniture? I swear, for the amount of time these doctors spend at college, they don't know a lot about anything. (They were probably high most of the time, but still...) Really. Would it kill them?

Ouch. Bad choice of words. Suddenly, all these idioms that trivialise death and normally slip off my tongue are starting to rip chunks out of me. It isn't particularly pleasant (_really_?). I need to keep my mind steered well away from the taboo topic of... her... so I start a conversation with Phoebe. Idle talk to pass the time – something like that. Only, with Phoebe, nothing ever goes the way you think it's going to. She's the least predictable person I know – unfortunately, this isn't always a good thing.

* * *

_And you said there's nothing you wouldn't do  
__And I answered, "There's nothing in this world I need you to do"  
__Just hold me in your arms; I feel so cold  
__There are dark clouds gathering  
__Won't you take me home?_

__

"I'm sick of this damn room," I tell her. She appears to be having a staring contest with some guy across the room – either that, or this is her weird idea of some sort of twisted mating ritual. Seriously – reminds me of something I saw on the Discovery Channel. About skunks.

"Oh, totally," she replies distractedly, flicking a ball of dust between her index finger and thumb (See what I mean? _Everything_ shows up here! People wouldn't complain so much about the state of our medical system if they just painted the walls a different colour!... I'm getting far too into this, aren't I?). "The feng shui's _all_ wrong."

Yep. Obviously _that_ is my priority. Feng shui. Totally. "I _meant_ that I wish they'd let us see her," I mutter through gritted teeth, throwing any hope of not thinking about Monica out of the window, and wondering whether Phoebe will ever learn how to keep her mouth _shut_.

"Some of these people have _filthy_ auras, too!" she burbles on, gesturing around the room with an outstretched arm swaying with bracelets. What am I talking about? Of course she won't.

She glances at me for a second before speaking. "She'll be okay, Jack..."

Oh, yeah. I am so sure. Because, you know, Phoebe is, of course, the daughter of God and therefore able to perform miracles. Oh, no. Wait. She's not. "Can you promise me that?" I ask, after a moment's pause. I think I can take a _wild_ stab at what her answer's going to be. Here's a clue – it isn't 'yes'.

"No, but–". Oh, look. There we go. How did I _ever_ guess?

"Then there isn't any point in you saying anything, is there? It's just going to make it worse, and, you know what? I'm not in the mood, Phoebe. I don't think I could cope with things getting any worse than this –" (famous last words, Mr Bing). Tears in my eyes (it's forgivable to cry in a hospital, right? I mean, it sort of... goes with the territory, doesn't it? God – only I could be worrying about what other people think of me at the moment. Maybe the kids at school who call me 'Fat Boy Loser' – okay, and the teachers – have a point...), I stand up and prepare to storm theatrically out of the room.

God. I am such a drama queen. I mean... oh, never mind. Did I just call myself a queen? Am I asking _myself_ questions? (And the answer to both of those is going to be a resounding 'yes'...).

"Jack?" calls Phoebe, just as I reach the door.

"_What_?" I screech back, determined to keep my cool and, at all accounts, not make a scene (okay, so there's no chance of that ever actually_ happening_, but that's not the point. It's nice to have an aspiration in life, right? No?).

"You're about to walk in on someone getting an X-ray," she tells me. Oh. That would probably be why the door I'm gripping the handle of has a sign reading 'X-ray Room', would it? Yeah – that might make some sense. "The way out's the other door."

Great. Just great. Forget keeping cool, then. I might as well just... dance around naked in front of my whole school or something. Because this isn't a nightmare already...

Although my anger at Phoebe has pretty much dissolved into a dull nothingness, I'm still keen to make a point (I can't quite remember what the point actually _is_... but I'm sure it's important). So I make my grand exit, slamming the door behind me (causing a pregnant lady to call me something that a woman in her condition definitely should _not_ be saying... no, hang on. Since when does pregnancy make you _polite_?) and wander aimlessly into the hallway.

* * *

_Oh, won't you take me home?_

__

My Uncle Ross is sitting on a white (see? White! Everything!) chair in the main foyer of the hospital. Normally, I'd try to avoid him – somehow, I never really find myself in the mood for an in depth discussion about dinosaurs or whatever – but I figure that, right now, he's not going to rope me into his two man blow-by-blow reconstruction of Jurassic Park. Not in public.

"Hey," I mumble, taking the seat next to him and becoming attached to a large wad of chewing gum. Oh, great. Yeah, that is _exactly_ what I need right now. Lucky old me.

"Hey, kid," he replies (I notice that I'm getting a lot of sympathetic 'hey, kid's now I'm in this position. You wait – as soon as it all blows over, it'll be back to 'Oi! You!' again. I kid not – just you wait...). "How's it going? Everything okay?"

Oh, _sure_. Everything's going just swimmingly. Except for, you know, my dying mother. But whatever. That's probably old news by now.

Monica who?

* * *

_Got me wandering, wondering where to turn  
__There are dark clouds gathering  
__Won't you take me home?_

__

"How could things be okay?" I ask him, folding my arms and trying to avert my gaze from the blindingly bright lights on the ceiling. A porter rushes through, pushing a stretcher with a bloodied and moaning man lying askew on it, and I'm suddenly very aware of my stomach, and the food inside it which is trying to push its way right back up. I should never have had that fifth bar of chocolate. He doesn't answer. I don't expect him to. I don't think that anyone could answer that question (with the possible exception of Steven Hawking, who, you know, is really smart). "What happened, Ross?"

I don't know whether I wanted to ask that question or not. My stomach definitely doesn't want me to – it's leaping right into my mouth in protest, but... I need to know how she got here. I've got to know.

He swallows, licking his lips hesitantly (he obviously hasn't noticed that he's sitting right next to the drinks vending machine). "We- we went to the airport. To pick up Anthony. You know – Mon's boyfriend." (Yes, yes. I'm painfully aware of who Anthony is, thanks). "I was waiting outside in the car while she went into the terminal. She wanted to meet him right off the plane – you know what kind of a person she is." Somehow, reminding me how wonderful my mother was – is! – doesn't make it hurt any less that she's in here right now. "I was just reaching to turn my radio on when I heard this... this-" He shivers (that's another thing – can't the government afford heating in hospitals? Would it really cost _that _much?). "This... bang and then... a scream and then I knew that it was her."

"What happened to Anthony?" I ask – aware that this isn't the part of the story I should be concentrating, but also far too certain that if I start thinking about the other bit, then I might cry. And it's not that I'm scared of other people hearing me if I do – more scared that I might never stop.

And that would take up a lot of tissues.

Ross shrugs. "One of the paramedics said they'd sort out ringing him or something. He'll probably be here any time now. Great welcome party he's getting, huh?"

I nod, while mentally forming a message to God. When I said I wanted him to break Anthony and my Mom up, I did _not_ mean by doing this. Seriously. I am one seriously unhappy customer – is it possible to sue our Lord? I'm distracted from planning my prayer as I become aware of two men in dark coats standing a few metres away from our chairs and staring at... us. I nudge Ross and jerk my head in their direction.

He looks up for a second, blinks, and takes a visible double take. "Joey?" he cries. "_Chandler_?"

Okay. You know when I said that I couldn't cope if things got any worse? Watch me stop coping right about _now_.

* * *

_O__h please, won't you take me home?  
__Oh, won't you take me home?_

__

Too long? Too short?

I love each and every one of you who reviews with all my heart (stop laughing! I'm being serious!). If you do it again, I'll love you with all of _both_ my hearts...


	7. Nothing Gets Crossed Out

Hello there. This is a long chapter. Aren't you all lucky?

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

* * *

_Well, the future's got me worried,   
such awful thoughts.   
My head's a carousel of pictures;   
the spinning never stops   
I just want someone to walk in front   
and I'll follow the leader_

* * *

I stare at him in disbelief. It's him – you know, _him _(well, obviously I had to check – you know, in case Ross was...uh... lying to me – since that's what people do, you know. Hey, is this why people tell me I have trust issues?). He's changed since that photo Phoebe showed me of him. Well, obviously. _Most_ people change in twenty years. With the possible exception of Joan Rivers... let me rephrase my original statement. Most people not formed _entirely_ of plastic change in twenty years... my God – am I _actually_ thinking about Joan Rivers _right_ now? Okay – mental note, Jack: when people call you a freak, _this_ is why! (Plus the way that you're talking to yourself – that might also have something to do with it).

I drag my mind back on topic (it's hard for me sometimes, okay?) and realise that I'm staring right at him. Damn. I expect that might not add to my whole air of 'you left us for ten years, so I'm not even going to look at you', right? Well, it's not my fault. He's staring at me too (and _that_ makes it better).

He's got blue eyes. Bright blue. Just like my Mom. God – maybe the secret no one's ever told me about him is that he's actually related to Mom! If I found out that I were related to _my_ wife (considering I don't have one – a sister, I mean, although I don't have a wife either - that's probably quite an unlikely situation, but whatever) I think I'd run away, too. Extremely fast. To Minsk (Phoebe's ex, David, used to live there. Apparently the girls there are _hot_. Then again, David's a geek, so... oh, who am I even kidding? I am too).

Oh, sweet Lord. That's a disgusting thought. I feel ill. Ill. Sick. Sick, sick, sick. Sick boy, Jack.

They're all staring at me weirdly now (you know – Satan, his minion, and... er... Ross and Phoebe). _Might_ have something to do with the way I'm repeatedly shaking my head and whacking it – you know, _some_ people don't consider that normal... what strange little lives they must lead.

I turn to Phoebe - she must have followed me out of the waiting room. My mind generally doesn't wander so much when I talk to her – her topic of conversation is normally so terrifying that it keeps me fully occupied. Petrified, but occupied.

She has a weird grin on her face. What does she have to grin about? Unless-

"How the hell did _he_ get here?" I demand, jabbing an accusing finger in her direction (well, hopefully she'll understand that it's an accusing finger, and not that I'm... dancing, or anything. Because, obviously, a lot of people dance with their _fingers_...).

"I'm not sure." She turns to him. "Train?"

"Plane," he tells her.

"Oh." She looks at me. "Plane."

Oh, really? That's exactly what I wanted to know! It all makes _sense _now!

I glare at her. "That's not what I _mean_, Pheebs," I mutter, raising my eyebrows significantly in Chandler's direction.

She smiles benignly, obviously not aware that I am two seconds away from killing her (with my lethal _finger_, apparently....). "I phoned Joey." Joey? Oh. That would be the one who just picked his nose and ate it when he thought no one was watching, right? Yeah – Joey. What a charming guy. "You know, to tell him about Mon." Really? Because I thought it'd just be a _social_ call! She giggles – apparently my mother's illness has become a comedy now. Brilliant. There's nothing good on television – let's just watch Jack's life crumble instead, eh? Fantastic! "You know," she continues obliviously. "Mon used to have _the_ biggest crush on him when he first moved in!"

Four faces turn to stare at her incredulously. "_Oh_! Is this an example of one of those times you were telling me about, Jack? Y'know – when I should keep my mouth shut?"

She gets it! The woman finally gets it! I nod emphatically, praying that she might get the hint. For once in her life – she does. Is this conclusive proof that God exists? "Uh – anyway," she continues. "Joe said he'd come straight away, and I guess he kinda... brought Chandler with him."

Oh, isn't that sweet? It's like ordering tickets – exclusive front-row seats for my mother's deathbed. Yeah – Joey plus one guest. Shame he had to bring the guy who deserted us, though.. couldn't he have brought his mother or his girlfriend, or something?

Phoebe sighs reminiscently – oh, dear God – is she still talking? "We were all so close back then. You know – before..." her voice trails of, and she, Ross, Chandler and Joey look tense (as if this meeting wasn't tense already...) and clear their throats simultaneously.

Oh, great. So we're back to the Big Secret that no one's ever told me again – oh, how I love it when everyone else knows something I don't and keeps me in the dark. Hang on – _everyone_ knows. This is so unfair! The monkey (you know, the gormless one they're all calling 'Joey' and trying to pass off as a human) gets to find out before me! I swear – being a teenager _sucks_. No one tells you _anything_! Or maybe it's just that they don't trust me... or even that they don't _like_ me. Man – if I emerge from this without severe self esteem issues (well, _more_ severe self esteem issues than I already have), I'll be seriously shocked.

* * *

_Now I'm trying to be assertive,   
I'm making plans   
Gonna rise to the occasion, yeah,   
Meet all their demands   
But all I do is just lay in bed   
and hide under the covers_

* * *

There is an awkward silence. Well, isn't this just one of those Kodak moments you just want to remember for ever and ever? Three hours later – I may be exaggerating slightly – we are saved by a man in a white coat. At first, I'm convinced he's some random gay guy committing a major fashion faux pas – until I realise that, considering we're in a hospital and all, he might _just_ be a doctor. Boy, aren't I just razor sharp today?

"Doctor Davidson," he smiles, shaking hands with Ross and nodding cheerily at Phoebe and the two guys. Uh, hello there. Don't mind me or anything – it's not like I'm the _son_! Oh, how I hope his first name is Harley, and that he was bullied all the way through school. Either that, or 'Complete Ass'.

"So, er..." Doctor Ass says, turning to my uncle and fiddling nervously with his clipboard – my stomach lurches. This (from what I've seen on TV, which, of course, is a highly accurate representation of hospital life) is the classic behaviour of someone who's got to give bad news to the bereaved family. Oh, God! He's going to tell us that Monica's... hang on. No. That can't be right. The guy's _smiling_. No one smiles when they're telling a kid that their Mom's died, right?

* * *

_Yeah, I know I should be brave   
But I'm just too afraid of all this change   
And it's too hard to focus through all this doubt   
I keep making these to-do lists but nothing gets crossed out_

* * *

"Mr Geller?" he asks. Ross nods, straightening his tie (seriously. Now is not the time. My uncle gets way nervous around _real_ doctors – which, considering he has a PHD in _dinosaurs_, is hardly surprising...).

"Yeah. That's me." I have to stop myself from _growling_ in annoyance at all this time wasting. I'm glad I do – Doctor Sad Loser over here doesn't look like he's in the mood for animal charades...

"Great. Could we have a word?" the doctor asks him. "Nothing's changed – we'd just like to explain the extent of your sister's injuries to you."

"I'll come!" I shout, jumping out of my seat. "Anything you've go to say, I want to hear it too!"

"No, no," the doctor replies, in the sort of patronising tone he obviously reserves for little kids. I realise that my first impression of him was probably right... "This is for adults." And I am _what_? I bet he's going to try and offer me a lollipop next... "It would probably be better if you stayed here with Dad."

_Dad_? "I have no father," I tell him, narrowing my eyes and glaring significantly at Chandler. That's right, Jack. You cut him _real_ deep.

"Well, quite," he says, smiling cheerily and obviously ignoring me completely. "Anyway – Mr Geller? If you'd like to come to my office and we can discuss your sister's welfare?"

Worst chat-up line ever, that.

Ross nods, and follows him obediently, leaving just me and Chandler. (And Phoebe. And Joey).

"I'm hungry!" whines Joey, obviously unaware of the palpable tension (and here was me thinking that animals had _heightened_ senses...). "Chandler, can you help me out here?"

By offering himself as a human sacrifice? Good idea.

* * *

_'Cause I been feeling sentimental for days gone by   
All the summers singing, drinking, laughing, wasting our time   
Remember all the songs and the way we smiled   
In those basements made of music?   
But now I've got to crawl to get anywhere at all   
I'm not as strong as I thought_

* * *

"Sure," he mutters, handing his wallet to Joey. "Bring me back some change, alright?"

Oh, okay, then. When he got rid of one son, he obviously got a new one. Joey. He wanders off in search of food, and Chandler gives me a hopeful grin.

"He's a nice guy once you get to know him," he tells me, winking.

A _wink_? Ten years, and I get a _wink_? I gape at him, disbelieving – suddenly aware of how ridiculous he is – of how ridiculous all of this is.

As I see it, I have two options. Option A is to laugh – Option B is to cry.

After some deliberation, I decide to take Option C – to kill the bastard. Phoebe, unfortunately, seems to anticipate this, and grabs me round the middle (which would be very exciting and all if she weren't my aunt, and if I weren't in a hospital planning to commit murder).

"Get off me, Phoebe!" I roar. "Get off me. Get off. I'll kill him! I'll do it! I swear I'll kill him!" My cheeks are warm – either the hospital staff have cranked up the heating in here, or I'm crying (it's probably the latter – if you know anything about the US government, you know that they are not going to let a small thing like their patients dying of pneumonia come between them and sparing a few dimes. It'd probably be easier if we all died, anyway – less people would complain, and they wouldn't have to bother with all that democracy crap). I ball my hands into fists, biting my lower lip so hard it starts to bleed (that is _totally_ normal, I swear! It's what... uh... boxers do...). And I'm ready. "Let me at him!" I yell.

"You don't want to do this," Phoebe tells me, firmly. No, no. I _really_ do. "Well, you do," she concedes after a second (y'think it has something to do with the way I've turned bright red and look like I'm about to implode?). Yep. "But you won't be able to, I promise." And that's where she makes her first mistake... wait. No. This is definitely not her _first _mistake – I still haven't forgotten that massage incident with the fire extinguisher and the chilli sauce. And neither have that guy's poor family... may he rest in peace.

"Y'think?" I ask, struggling to free myself from her grasp (she's strong, okay? It has _nothing_ to do with me being weak and pathetic! No, really! Nothing!).

"We'll see," she whispers, letting go. I am propelled forwards in a rush of hot anger, and I unleash myself upon him, the tears (by now, I'm certain that they definitely _are_ tears. It didn't take me a long time to work this out, or anything..) biting at my eyes. All I know is that I want to hurt him... I want to hurt him. For her.

My fist flies forwards, and I hear a comforting crunch of (hopefully his) bones. I pull it back, gathering energy for another punch (and ignoring the nasty feeling I have that I've actually crushed my knuckles and left his face entirely unharmed), but an inexhaustible force pulls me backwards – I am helpless to its power. In other words, my Aunt Phoebe. She can be freakishly tough when she wants to – that's probably what growing up on the streets and marrying a gay ice dancer does to you. Well. Maybe not the gay ice dancer bit so much, now I come to think of it... God, my family's strange. Why have I never realised this before?

"Sorry," she tells Chandler unenthusiastically. I am outraged – she should be apologising to _me_ for pulling me off the guy! Just as I was about to do some _real_ damage (I whimper slightly as I nurse my painful fist)! "I didn't think he'd _actally_ hurt you." She pauses thoughtfully. "God, he must _really_ hate you..."

"Thanks for that, Pheebs," he says quietly, a shadow of a smile on his face.

Yeah. Thanks for that, Pheebs.

* * *

_So when I'm lost in a crowd   
I hope that you'll pick me out   
How I long to be found _

_The grass grew high, I laid down   
Now I'm waiting for a hand   
To lift me up, help me stand   
I've been laying so low   
Don't wanna lay here no more   
Don't wanna lay here no more_

* * *

He turns slowly to me. His face, regrettably, seems unharmed. Damn.

"Jack," he says quietly, his voice deeper than it was when he was talking to Phoebe. Oh, yeah. Prove your masculinity to me. _That_'s going to impress me. Sure.

"Don't even try and talk to me," I tell him, in a calm and reserved tone. Well – when I _say_ calm and reserved, what I actually _mean_ is that I shriek like a girl. But, hey. I'd say that his impression of me isn't so great anyway – considering the fact that I've already leapt on him and we've only known each other for less than an hour. If I were a woman, that'd probably be okay, but... no. We're not even going to go there.

I feel sick.

"Stay away from me," I continue, trying not to get any mental images which could, quite possibly, scar me for life (like this situation hasn't already done that...). "Stay away from me, or I swear that any number of Phoebes won't keep me off you next time." Fighting talk, Mr. Jack. Not entirely true – Phoebe is infinitely stronger than me – but tough all the same. All this fighting – I am turning into _such_ a rebel! Or... er... not.

"Consider me warned," he says, the half-smile back. That smug grin is grounds for murder, right? I mean – that has _got_ to hold up in court, hasn't it?

Something tells me he's not taking me seriously – probably something to do with the way I'm squealing like a little baby. "I'm not kidding, man," I tell him quietly. "I would've already knocked you flat on your back-" (a smile white lie never hurt anyone. He doesn't have to know that I'm a wimp. I quite like the idea of him thinking I'm a tough street kid, actually...) "-if I didn't know that Monica wouldn't be too happy to wake up and find that her only kid's in prison for life, you know?"

I suddenly remember the telephone call I got from the police yesterday – Man, it's funny how time flies when you're having fun, isn't it? God obviously has a sick sense of humour.

I decide to slip the call subtly into the conversation - well, why not? "Life. That's what you get for murder, y'know," I inform him meaningfully (you know... just in case he... didn't already know). Oh, yeah – seriously, Subtle is my middle name. Jack Subtle Bing (and you thought my name couldn't get any worse... well, actually, it could. My middle name is really... uh... Muriel. Oh, the glee on the faces of the kids in my class when they found _that_ one out, I tell you...).

"Yeah. I know that," he replies. "I watch a lot of cop shows on TV."

Oh, good. I'm so glad to know that you ditched my Mom in order to do something _meaningful_ with your life and not just to waste your life away for no reason, then. I'm sure she'll be glad to know that when she gets out of here. That'll make the years worth it. "No firsthand experience, then?" I ask, noticing that he isn't picking up on my delicate hints. He must be even more stupid than I thought...

"Of cop shows on TV?" he asks, grinning. Oh, hello there, Mr. Wit.

"Forget it. We're not having this conversation."

"Really? You could've fooled me, man. What're we doing now, then?" Hey. It's good to know that the guy has a sense of humour. It's also good to know that there's no _way_ in hell I could have inherited it. Thank God.

"You aren't important to me. I'm not just saying that." Well, I am really, because he _is_ important. He's my father. But _he_ doesn't have to know that. "All I care about right now is my mother, okay?" Fear erupts into my mouth at the thought of Monica – like a volcano. Mount Jack. Only, instead of lava-

"Are you being sick?" he asks, worriedly.

"Are you stating the obvious?" I retort. Or, at least, I try to. It's hard to be dry and cutting while you're retching on the floor underneath a plastic hospital chair – _you_ try it, okay?

Phoebe steps in, putting an arm around me (she's a brave woman – either that, or she's brought a change of clothes with her...). "You wanna go to the restroom, Jackie?"

No, no. I'm fine here, thanks. Perfectly comfortable.

At that moment, a gaggle of doctors (a gaggle? I'm not sure. What's the correct term for a collection of medical workers?) runs past, followed by my Uncle Ross in hot pursuit. Hey, that would make a good computer game! Chase The Doctors Then Impale Them With Their Stethoscopes! On the other hand, it might not be violent enough for today's teen market...

"Ross? What's wrong?" asks Chandler, leaping to his feet.

I glare at him. "Don't talk to my uncle," I tell him. I turn to Ross. "Ross? What's wrong?" (Me saying it makes _all_ the difference, honestly...).

"It's Monica! She's... she's..." he chokes. "Oh, come on!"

* * *

_Everything that happens is supposed to be   
And it's all predetermined – can't change your destiny   
Guess I'll just keep moving   
Someday maybe I'll get to where I'm going_

* * *

Oh, dear. I think I've become addicted to cliff-hangers. Tee hee. I love you all and I'm glad that people are actually reading this! Don't hesitate to review! 


	8. This Old Wound

Hello, children! Eek – over a month since I last updated! I hope that this makes up for it – the reason that it took so long is that I actually have _no_ idea how this story's going to end, and I'm sort of… prolonging the agony of having to actually decide on whether it's going to be happy or not. Anyway, with this chapter, I actually had two alternative versions. Option 1 started with the words "Monica's awake!" and Option 2 started with the words "Monica's dead!".

In the end, I actually went with Secret Option Number Three…

-

_I've been bleeding well  
__from this old wound  
__Cleaning it with salt,  
__so it will still feel new _

-

"Monica's _what_?" I screech, sprinting after Ross. "Monica is _what_? I swear, man, if you're planning on telling me she's dead, then… well, let's just say that my first act as an orphan will be to make pretty _damn_ sure I don't have an uncle either! You get me?"

The constricted look on his face and the way that his eyes are bulging beyond recognition tells me that, yes, he probably _does_ get me – either that or he's on the verge of a heart attack. Seriously, the guy _really_ needs to work out more – we're talking signs of distinct man breasts here (although, I, as the proud winner of the "Most Doughnuts In 60 Seconds" – a record-breaking 13 – award, _probably _can't talk…).

"_What_?" pants Chandler. You almost feel sorry for the guy – he's a red, gasping heap (yes, again, I am painfully aware that 'Lard Boy Bing' has absolutely no right to comment). Almost. "What're you talking about, Jack? You've _got _a father! You've got me!"

Oh, _no_. We are so _not_ going there now.

"He also has a mother!" yells Ross. "Mon _isn't_ dead, Jack!"

Oh, good. Panic over. Although, thanks to my concentration on running – and the physical inadequacies of those around me – I never actually got around to any real panicking… well, it was either because of that, or it's just that I'm just a heartless freak… whichever…

"Then why the _hell_ did you drive us to _running_?" I pant, stumbling on.

God – he's my _uncle_! You'd think he _might_ know by now that exercise is a mortal sin for me!

"One of the machines she was hooked up to in there got turned off, so they were running to get it back on again before there were any problems, and-"

"Whoa, there!" shouts Chandler, waving a hand in the air ('W_hoa there_'? Seriously – who even _says_ that any more?). "They turned the _machine_ off? The machine as in the machine that's keeping Monica alive, yes? _That _machine? They turned _that_ machine off?"

Well, I think we've all established what the _machine_ is… Worryingly though, I agree with him. (Sort of). Doctors are _not_ meant to switch stuff on and off whenever it takes their fancy! I bet it was that five-year-old medical student I saw in reception earlier – he probably wanted some new toys to play with or something… or he was sulking because someone told him that Santa doesn't exist! Yes – it was obviously him! I am _so_ going to write a formal letter of complaint!

Ross rolls his eyes laboriously. "Okay. Number one – _breathe_." (I fume – how can he give helpful (possibly life-prolonging) advice to the guy who ruined his little sister's life? Whatever happened to sibling loyalty?) "And, number two –" He stops running suddenly, and turns to me. It would have been one of those uncle-nephew bonding sessions if it hadn't been for two things… my feet. Unfortunately, they seem incredibly unwilling to come to a sudden halt – I end up skidding about five metres before colliding with Ross and landing on top of him in a heap on the floor. Classy, Jack…

"Number _two_," he repeats, his voice breathless (see what I mean about exercise? His lung capacity is nil! Of course, it might also have something to do with the beached whale crushing him – Jack M Bing, at your service. You can understand why I'm so popular with the ladies…).

"_Number two_!" he says for a third time, panting uncertainly. To be honest, I'm not really sure whether there actually _is_ a number two or not (of course, there _is_ number two – but that's something to save for a _whole_ other situation). "She's not dead, Jack… she's not dead!"

Well, yes – and that's lovely and all – but something's telling me that the word 'yet' should be suffixing his sentence. Instinct, perhaps?

Actually, no. I realise that it's not _instinct_, but _Phoebe_, who is muttering it under her breath.

"Pheebs?" mumbles Ross, trying to free himself from the death grip I'm holding him in. "_Kinda_ not helping here…"

"We all die _some_day, Ross!"

"Yes, but we're not planning on doing it today! Especially me!"

Phoebe gives a knowing look. "Ah – that's what _you _think…"

Well, at least she's lightening the mood (which, actually, isn't all that dark anyway – again, heartless freak of nature here…).

-

_Sometimes eyes turn black,  
__and sometimes scars are tracks  
__But every time you're gone  
__I wish that you'd come back_

-

"Hey, Jack?" asks Ross, squirming underneath me.

"_What_?" I snap.

"Y'ever think of moving?"

"Yeah – but then I realised that I kinda like it here in New York – I mean, the shops are great, and –" I break off as he glares at me. "O-_kay_," I mumble. "Obviously not one of those moments…"

Chandler smirks, and I send one of my death glares at him (well, I always _assumed_ that they were death glares – that is, until I tried one out on a five-year-old who was about to get the last Big Mac, and he started rolling around laughing on the floor…).

"_Jack_!" Ross barks.

"What?"

"_MOVE!_"

I roll off of him onto the floor and notice two nurses staring, eyes wide, at us – they obviously like what they see… no! Hang on! Me and my _uncle_! That is wrong on so, _so_ many levels…

"Let's go see Mon!" demands Phoebe, who – for reasons probably best left unconsidered – is bounding up and down on the spot.

"Hey there, Skippy! Calm down!" grins Chandler.

Phoebe frowns. "I'm _Phoebe_… look, I know you deserted us all for ten years, but I thought you'd at least remember our _names_…" Score one for Miss Buffay!

"As in the bush kangaroo?" He shrugs. "Oh, forget it… let's – let's go…"

"Only two of you in, I'm afraid," says one of the doctors who had been in front of us, smiling benignly. "Don't want to overcrowd her now, do we?"

"She's _unconscious_!" yelps Ross indignantly. "I really don't think she'll care about over-freakin'-_crowding_!"

He's probably right. If one of us went in there and started putting down drinks without coasters within a twenty metre radius of her, though… well, that's a _whole_ other story. In fact, I'm surprised the doctors haven't tried that yet…

"I think Jack and Chandler should go!" pipes up Phoebe, who, judging by her colossal grin, appears to think that she's doing the two of us a _huge_ favour…

She's not.

"Thanks, Phoebe," I mutter through my teeth. "Thanks a _bunch_."

"Thank you, Phoebe," echoes Chandler – only he sounds eerily genuine…

She shrugs. "Hey, if I can get you two alone in a room together, I can do anything! Nobel Prize for World Peace, here I come!"

I should have _known_ that she was just using me!

"_What_?" screeches Ross. "_Chandler_? No _way_, man! I'm her _brother_! I get to go in!"

"Chandler's her _husband_, Ross!" shouts our dear friend Joey, who has appeared behind us with tomato ketchup dribbling down his chin. Somehow, he manages to misinterpret my derisive look of disdain as a friendly smile (I _really_ need to work on my facial expressions in front of a mirror or something…) and gives me a cheerful grin.

"Joey's right," agrees Phoebe (Joey looks shocked – worryingly, this doesn't seem to be something he's experienced before). "There _are_ certain rules about these things…"

One day, I will force-feed Phoebe a copy of all her damn_ rules_…

"Yeah, that's right!" shouts Ross. "Rules! Which you, Chandler Bing, broke every single one of!"

Chandler cocks an eyebrow. "How? It's not like I kissed your _mom_ or anything – and it's not like we could say the same about _your_ relationship with _my_ mother, is it?"

_Finally_, it gets interesting…

"You know what I mean, man! You know what else?"

"What?"

"_What_?"

Phoebe prods Ross helpfully. "I think you already covered 'what'…"

"You are _way_ overdue on that ass-kicking I promised you before you married her… _way_ overdue…"

Chandler smirks (my uncle is about as threatening as – well – me…). "Ross, _believe me_, I do _not_ want to laugh at you right now, but you aren't leaving me with much of a choice, y'know?"

My God – does this guy _ever_ stop making lame wisecracks? He isn't even _funny_!

"One good reason. Give me _one_ good reason why you should get to go in there, Chandler!"

His shoulders fall. "Because…"

"Oh, _because_?"

"Because I _love_ her, okay?"

Okay, okay – I take it back! The lame wisecracks are fine! Let's go back to the lame wisecracks!

"You _love_ her?"

"Yes! I love her! And, yeah, I know I haven't exactly made that very clear recently, but-"

God, how I miss the lame wisecracks!

I roll my eyes. "_Really_? _Haven't_ you? We hadn't noticed…"

"But… none of you know, okay? I mean, you all _think_ you know, but you don't! You all heard one side of the story – one side! One side isn't enough to make you all dig this grave for me!"

"I think you've been doing enough digging for yourself," remarks Phoebe wryly. Six faces turn and stare expectantly at me until – hang on! They _seriously_ expect _me_ to make this decision? What happened to 'poor little Jack'? Apparently the son of the unconscious lady doesn't get cut _any_ slack in this sort of situation – you'd think that there would be _some_ perks…

"Look – she's asleep!" I shout. "What the hell kind of difference does it make who goes in there to _stare_ at her unconscious?"

Chandler (who seems to have interpreted my outburst as some kind of gesture of acceptance of him as a father), whispers, "Thank you."

Oh, would it _kill_ him to talk in a _normal_ voice?

-

_I've been fanning flames from these old coals  
__Feeding them with tender  
__And hoping they will grow  
__And I've been savouring  
__What I can't hold  
__A blind belief in goodness  
__That doesn't seem to show_

-

"Have fun," Phoebe whispers, patting me on the shoulder.

"You have a twisted idea of fun," I mutter. "Do I _have_ to do this?"

"Yep."

"What – I have _no_ choice whatsoever?"

"Nope."

"I thought this was a free country!" I whine.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" She winks, and pushes me towards Chandler and Joey, who are muttering to each other under their breaths. Oh, man – he didn't leave her for _Joey_, did he? "Go."

Chandler looks up as I stumble towards him and crash into the wall (you know, I think he might be _beginning_ to get the impression that I'm ever so slightly clumsy…). "You ready to go in?" he asks softly, raising an arm as if to touch me, and then letting it drop back to his side.

"I s'pose," I mumble reluctantly, and push the door slowly open. She's there (well, obviously) on the bed, her hair spread out around her head like a black halo on the white pillow. Her body's pale and covered in bruises, and she looks horribly indecent in a small, thin nightgown. I consider getting Chandler to cover his eyes so he can't see her body – until I realise that, you know, he _might_ just have seen it before. Which is a terrifying thought, so, from now on, I'm just going to pretend that my mother is a virgin, alright?

He sits down heavily (there's someone _else_ who should pay a visit to Mr Diet a little more often) onto the chair next to the bed, and sighs deeply. I decide – unwillingly – that, after his little speech out there in the hall, he is allowed to cry. A little bit. If he's quiet about it.

However, I do _not_ allow for what he _does_ do next – which is to lean forward and _sniff_ her head. Seriously – _sniff _it, like she's a plant or something, and not my comatose mother. And – just wait – it gets worse…

"She doesn't smell the same as I remembered," he mumbles.

_She doesn't smell the same as I remembered_. Really? Doesn't she? _Really_?

"Did you _actually_ think she wouldn't wash her hair at all in _ten years_?" I ask incredulously.

"No… it's just…" He rubs his face with his hand. "Everything changed, didn't it?"

Oh, yeah. The _obvious_ assumption would be that time stood _still_ while you were gone! Yeah, because you actually are _that_ important!

"I'm going to get a drink," I mutter. A drink… a gun to shoot him with… same difference…

"Don't take too long."

"Yeah – don't want her to wake up alone with you… wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy." I want to hurt him. I really, _really_, from the bottom of my heart, truly, madly, deeply, want to _hurt_ him.

"Thanks." Apparently he isn't particularly wounded, though. Damn.

"Seriously, though – opening your eyes to find the guy who betrayed you staring back down at you… that would be fun, right?"

He grins. "You paint a beautiful picture."

I walk through the door and slam it shut behind me, closing my eyes in irritation. I can't handle this.

"Hey, Jackie!" calls Phoebe, springing up in front of me. "How's it going?"

I shrug. "How bad would you _expect_ it to be going?"

"About as bad as that time when I got that fork stuck _up_ the guy I was massaging's butt, and I had to get it out without him noticing?"

"Okay. That is about a _millionth_ of how painful this is, seriously…"

"How painful it was for him, or how painful it was for me after him and the security guys caught up with me?"

"Both. Multiplied by infinity."

"Ouch."

"Pretty much."

We are interrupted by a loud, very high-pitched scream emanating from Mom's room. Everyone in the surrounding corridor turns to stare in confusion at the closed door – everyone, that is, except for Phoebe.

"Ah," she says wisely. "Monica's awake, then…"

-

I hasten to add that this is _not_ a cliffhanger (well, not _really_…), so no one's allowed to get angry with me for it! Okay? ; )

Please review – I love reading them!


	9. Somewhere In Between

Okay. I am_ incredibly_ stupid. No, really! I wrote this whole chapter about a month ago, _uploaded_ it to … and then forgot to actually add it to the story. So, I was sitting here and wondering why no one was reviewing, when I _finally_ realised… oh dear.

I am torn between stretching this story out so that it lasts forever and I get about three thousand reviews, and wrapping up relatively quickly and being able to say at dinner parties, "I finished a story, you know" (well, I would if anyone invited me to any dinner parties, anyway…). We'll see…

Thanks for all the reviews, by the way! I love you all!

-

_I can't be losing sleep over this,  
__No I can't,  
__And now I can not stop pacing.  
__Give me a few hours,  
__I'll have this all sorted out  
__If my mind would just stop racing_

-

"Mom!" I yell, starting to sprint towards the source of the sound.

"Jackie! _No_!" shouts Phoebe warningly, hooking an arm around my stomach (no mean feat, I tell you) and dragging me backwards. Seriously – I don't know why I let this woman boss me round so much (of course, by saying 'let', I make it sound like I actually have _some_ choice in the matter… trust me, this way creates a _much_ smaller dent in my self confidence, which is currently about nil). "Don't go in there!"

"Pheebs! I've already _been_ in there!" I remind her. I mean, it's very nice of her to try and protect me from seeing my mother like that and all… but hasn't she missed the mark a little? You know, what with me having already _seen _the potentially scarring images about two minutes ago and everything? That's Phoebe for you, though – _incredibly_ slow on the uptake when it comes to things that are… well, normal… (but lightning quick on all the really _weird_ stuff… which I'm sure will come in handy. One day.).

"I know _that_," she explains patiently, rolling her eyes. "But don't you think we should let those two… uh… _catch up_?"

Um. How about _no_?

"Are you kidding?" I splutter (_or are you just insane_?). "Are you _seriously_ saying that we should just… just _wait_ out here while – _while_ –"

While I have an aneurysm, apparently…

"Oh, no," she smiles. Thank God – even Phoebe isn't that– "I was saying that we should listen _through_ the door!"

Ah. Obviously I spoke – _thought_ – too soon…

"Oh, come _on_! You seriously, _seriously_, want to miss this? This conversation is going to be the best thing _ever_! Way better than all that crap on TV! You're actually not a _teensy_ bit interested?"

"_No_!" I lie, faking outrage.

She raises an eyebrow (obviously there was a _reason_ I didn't get into the school play… might have had something to do with the fact that I was auditioning for Juliet, though. It's not my fault I misread the sign!).

"Okay! Fine! _Fine_! But I don't feel good about this, okay?"

She folds her arms.

"Well, maybe a _little_ bit," I concede.

She narrows her eyes.

"Okay, then – let's listen," I say hurriedly before she starts getting me to confess some of my darker secrets (like the time when that old woman… well, we don't have to go into that _right_ now…).

-

'_Cause I can not stand still  
__I can't be this unsturdy  
__This cannot be happening_

-

We make our way over to the door, from which muffled voices (presumably Monica and Chandler, seeing as, well… they're the only people in there…) emanate. Phoebe picks up a (hopefully empty) crumpled hospital cup from the dusty floor, presses it against the door, and pushes her ear up close to it.

"Uh – Pheebs…" I begin, wondering how to broach the topic of her lunacy in a gentle and loving way. She hushes me, gesturing wildly at the closed door.

"Um, yes," I agree. "It's a door. Definitely a door. Pheebs, you do realise that you can here them perfectly well without the… uh… _cup_, right?"

She nods. "Of course I _know_! I'm not _stupid_, Jackie! It's just that this whole cup thing looks really fun when they do it on TV, okay? And, you know, when I was younger, I never got to _do_ the whole listening in on my parents thing – you know, because my Mom _killed_ herself and all…"

God, does she _have_ to bring her damn dead mother into _everything_? Broken record, seriously… why did I even bother to _expect_ a sensible answer, anyway? "And does it live up to expectations?"

She shakes her head. "A disappointing performance. The polystyrene grates my ears. Maybe glass would have been a better contender," she muses.

"Pheebs?"

"_Yes_?"

"Feel like actually listening to them now?"

She considers for a second before answering excitedly, "Okay!"

Boy. It's going to be a _long_ night.

"What are you even _doing_ here?" Monica's (slightly blanketed) voice emerges from the room. I jump a few centimetres into the air (nerves, of steel, me…) and Phoebe hits me over the head with her beloved cup (really, _really_ hope that some drunk guy didn't pee in it before she found it…).

"I heard you were in hospital!" he replies. "I _had_ to come!" (Gee – that's mighty big of you!) "Anyway, I was thinking of visiting anyway. You know, after Jack's letter and everything…"

Ah. Obviously he skipped _over_ the part of the letter where I told him not (on pain of death) to breathe a word of my contacting him to Monica. You know, since that wasn't a particularly _important_ bit or anything… He obviously values his life pretty low (well, can you blame him?). Luckily, Mom doesn't appear to be paying much attention to what he's saying. Fair enough.

"I told you to _stay away _from us!"

Wait a second (yes, because they can hear my _thoughts_ and are obviously going to wait for me to follow this one through, naturally…). _She_ told _him_ to stay away? This isn't the version I normally hear! I look at Phoebe, but she turns away stubbornly and starts chewing her hair.

Normally I wouldn't ask Ross for… well, _anything_ (except maybe some advice on what _dinosaurs_ to buy), but as he appears to be the only sane adult here, I turn to him, only to find that he's deep in conversation with Joey about… the advantages of the lifeguards in _Baywatch_ over the Tyrannosaurus Rex, apparently. This really _is_ typical (well, the Baywatch bit is new – Ross isn't _nearly_ cool enough to watch a show that involves a lot of half-naked people and a _lot_ of running), but this guy _always_ has to bring fossils into _everything_! It gets old pretty fast, believe me.

"I told you to _stay away_!" repeats Monica hoarsely. The woman has _just_ woken up from a freakin' _coma_! Is this really helpful? And why haven't any doctors rushed in there yet like they do in the movies? (It might have _something_ to do with Phoebe guarding the door… you know, if I didn't know better, I'd assume that the lump in her side was a _gun_ or something – when, really, I know for sure that it's just some aromatherapy candles she keeps in there for emergencies… I hope…). What is _up_ with this health system?

"Me and Jack –" ("Jack and _I_," mouths Ross, where he has stopped talking and is busy pretending not to listen) "- are better off without you!" So, apparently she's _almost_ as overjoyed at seeing him again as I am! Great! "What I said before still stands, Chandler! It always will! I want you away from my child! My _only_ child…" she adds warningly.

I recognise that tone – it's the one she used on me after she found out I got suspended for a week for sitting on Rory Moore (he totally deserved it! He stole my gum! _From_ my _mouth_!). I am willing to bet that Chandler (being a normal, functioning male) is currently desperately trying to find an escape route… doors… windows… when _I_ was in that position, I was all set to dig a hole in the ground if it meant I could run away (and we all know how much Chandler _loves_ doing that…).

"But… I love you, Monica. So much." That's a good tactic, actually – tell her you love her, get her temporarily distracted, and then run, _run_, _RUN_!

"And you _actually_ think that I'm going to just – I don't know – _forget_ everything and come _running_ back to you just because you say three _stupid_ little words? Forget it, Chandler!"

Okay, obviously not such a great tactic… maybe he played the love card a little too early…

"Jack!" It takes me a minute to realise that the voice is calling me, and I whip my head around, annoyed at being distracted from the show (Phoebe was right as usual. _So_ much better than a soap opera!).

It's Anthony. As in my mother's boyfriend, the smug bastard, Anthony. As in the guy I hate _almost_ as much as my father… _that_ Anthony (as opposed to all the other Anthonys also determined to ruin my life)…

"Hi… Anthony…" I mutter, clenching my fists and pretending I'm squashing his irritating little head between them (lovely, lovely image, trust me).

"Where is she?" he cries, a half-dead daffodil wilting in his grip… so nice to know that he really made an effort, you know?

"In there." I gesture vaguely in Phoebe (who has reverted to using the cup again)'s direction.

"With the doctor?"

"You'd think so, but… no." A smile plays on my lips. Pissing him off would _really_ help make me feel better… "Actually, Chandler's in there with her."

"Her husband? Your father?"

"Seriously, man – how many Chandlers do you actually _know_? It's not really that common a name, is it? Maybe we should look up, like, some census results or something… just to see, you know?" I look up, and am pleased to see that smoke is starting to billow from his ears. "So, who's up for that?" I ask eagerly (apparently I have learned a lot from Phoebe. Worrying.).

"_Chandler_?" shrieks Rachel, who appears behind Anthony. "He's _here_? Like, in the _hospital_?"

"No," I mutter. "In _Russia_."

She frowns at me for a second before choosing to ignore me completely. "_Oh_! Deprecating sarcasm… Chandler's son… got it! Did he get your letter, then?"

I wave my arms wildly at her to try and shut her up – unfortunately, Ross glares in our direction, noticing my windmill impression with a frown. "What letter?" he snaps.

I turn on Phoebe, exasperated. "See, this is why I don't _tell_ you things!" I growl. "Maybe it would be better if we just… didn't talk to each other any more?"

She puts a finger to her lips and bangs the cup against the door a couple of times. "Shh! I'm _listening_!"

"What can you hear, Pheebs?" asks Rachel, humouring her.

"Well, Rachel – at the moment, I can hear… well, not very much, actually," she admits, frowning. "It's gone pretty quiet in there. "I'm thinking maybe she killed him…"

I stare at her, aghast.

"No, no! Don't worry! I mean, what _probably_ happened is that he just… you know, turned off all the machines and stuff he's got in there just to _shut her up_. I mean, you've seriously never been tempted?"

"Phoebe! Is that _seriously_ meant to _calm me down_?" I scream.

She frowns. "What – you… don't find that comforting?"

I shake my head slowly.

"Oh." Her face falls. "And what about everyone else? Let's take a vote! Everyone who thinks I'm helping, say 'aye'!"

Silence.

-

_This is over my head, but underneath my feet  
_'_Cause by tomorrow morning, I'll have this thing beat  
__And everything will be back to the way that it was  
__I wish that it was just that easy_

-

Phoebe drums her fingers on the wall. "I –" (tap) "am –" (taptap) "so –" (tap) "_bored_!" (taptap).

I slam my hand on top of hers. "And you think I'm _not_?"

She sighs. "I want babies!"

"Uh… _right_ now?"

"Well, we _are_ in the right place." She winks. "And you're not a bad lookin' boy, Jack Bing…" She sighs. "Why don't I have any babies, Jackie?"

"Don't look at me! I guess we could give Frank Jr a call," I muse. "You know – see if he's in a position to knock you up again."

She lunges at me.

"What?" I protest. "What? I was only _suggesting_! So it's okay for you to have your brother's kids, but we aren't allowed to _talk _about it? Double morals, Pheebs! Get your hands off my throat! Seriously – _off_ the throat!"

She sits back in her seat, rubbing her hands together. "As I was _saying_… I'm _bored_, Jack!"

It's probably best if I don't answer.

What with a broody aunt, a hospitalised mother, a suitably pathetic father and a homicidal uncle who looks like he's just about to explode, this is shaping up to be a _fantastic_ day!

Said homicidal uncle storms towards the ward door, looking aptly annoyed. "Okay, I don't care about your freakin' _babies_, Pheebs! I am going _in_ here _right_ now, okay?"

Phoebe frowns. "Hey – you really think that's wise?"

No, no – we just _let_ them kill each other! That sounds like a brilliant plan! I mean, an _orphanage_ sounds like a fun place to live, right…?

"Will _someone_ just go _in_ the stupid room?" I shout – all eyes turn to me. Damn. "Of course, when I say 'someone', I mean 'someone who _isn't_ me'," I amend, worrying that they might be expecting me to take some sort of action (I mean, God forbid…).

"I will," mutters Anthony grimly, pulling a long leather coat around him (what does he think this _is_? The Matrix?).

"Okay – just to clarify – that was 'someone' as in _not you_!" I bark over the clamour of everyone shouting each other down (we don't all appear to be arguing about the same thing, though – Joey's sulking about – as far as I can tell – a candy bar, and I don't even think Phoebe's speaking in _English_…).

Anthony pulls the door open (well – someone did have to do it _eventually_), and we all throw ourselves in after him, joined by a host of small children shouting "Bundle!", who appear to think they're in some kind of football game (Phoebe hisses at them and they retreat, whimpering). The problem, I realise, with cramming an enormous crowd of people into a tiny room, is… well, room. As in… there is none.

So I find myself squashed against Ross's head (and there is _no_ way in hell he only uses a pea-sized amount of gel, _whatever_ he says. I mean – men larger than me have _drowned_ in pools smaller than that…) with Joey pushed up against my back (and, as a straight man, that is _not_ a position I'm comfortable with, believe me).

"What's happening?" I hiss to Ross and he shrugs, frowning, and pokes Phoebe (who, apparently, has chosen this moment for a spot of meditation).

"They're hugging," she replies in a stage whisper, and an audible gasp rebounds around the room.

_Hugging_? They are _hugging_? Good God – this is _much_ worse than killing each other! At least murder's clean cut and (relatively) simple! The repercussions of this _are_ going to leave me scarred for life and dependent on prescription drugs, I swear (while, of course, my parents _slaughtering_ each other would have only _positive_ effects…)!

"_Hugging_?" explodes Ross, who has obviously hitched a ride on my train of thought.

"Well, they _were_," Phoebe explains. "Now they're… sort of… staring at us…"

Go figure.

"Get out!" roars a relatively unfamiliar voice from somewhere deep within the bowels of the room. I'm assuming it's Chandler rather than his friend – if Joey moved _at all_, I would _know_ about it (_trust_ me…). "All of you! Just… get _out_!"

Monica mumbles something, and he corrects himself. "Everyone _except_ Jack – _out_!"

Oh, so now it's just the three of us? The_ happy family_? Mummy, Daddy and… Jacky? If they tell me they're getting back together and buying a house with a garden (that's what you _do_ in this situation), I _swear_ I'll kill someone (preferably myself – then Chandler. And Anthony)!

Everyone marches sullenly out in a thin line, except Anthony (_still_ wearing the ridiculous coat, I note. _Why_?), who makes a beeline for Mom's bedside, and grasps her hand with his own slimy fist.

"Who's that?" demands Chandler, folding his arms and glaring at the invader.

"Her _boyfriend_," I announce to the wall (what – you think I'm actually going to talk to him?).

"I thought I said _get out_," Chandler snarls. "So do it!"

If he thinks he can win over _my_ mother by being all masterful and dominant, then… well, he's probably right, actually. My mom has spectacularly bad taste in men – I mean, first she marries _him_, and then there's Anthony, not to _mention_ the whole Slaughterhouse Guy incident…

"And I thought _I_ said…" begins Anthony, before realising that he hasn't actually _said_ anything yet (razor sharp, this one), and trailing off sheepishly. "I thought _Jack_ said," he corrects himself (he would have to drag _me_ into his sordid little game, wouldn't he?). "That I am Monica's boyfriend!"

Chandler flashes a grin. "And _I_ am Monica's husband! Husband beats boyfriend hands down – I win!" Man – he's almost as mature as _me_!

"Do I get a say in this?" Mom asks quietly (I had forgotten she was even in here! …I'm going to hell, aren't I?).

"No," chorus Chandler and Anthony, staring grimly at each other (on mature reflection, and after a _lot_ of careful consideration, I think that Anthony could probably take him. I mean, underneath that stupid jacket, he's pretty hefty – plus, Chandler couldn't beat _me_ up! How would he cope against an opponent _not_ formed entirely of Jello?).

I cough loudly twice, hoping that Phoebe (who, let's face it, is going to be out there with her cup right now listening in on this) will get the message and… do… something. Anything!

Amazing, she does (after the last detective movie we watched together, being super-cool people, we decided that this would be our danger signal) and pokes her head through the door. "Ant? You've got to get out here! I mean, _right_ now!" She gives me a large, obvious wink, and I groan. Even _Ross_ would have been better at this…

"Really? _Why_?" demands Anthony, looking (understandably) unconvinced.

"Um… the doctor wants to talk to you! Yes! Uh… Doctor Philange! Come on!"

She grabs his arm and drags him out of the room, kicking the door closed behind her and giggling manically (she's getting way too into this crazy detective role).

"I guess you're probably wondering about… a lot of stuff, Jack," Mom says quietly. "There's a lot of crap we – _I_ – should've told you a long time ago, but… I just never got round to it."

"Sure, sure. _That_'s a valid excuse," I mutter, kicking the floor sulkily.

"It's still hard for me, Jack – still hard for me to… well, yeah. So, Chandler's going to tell you. It's all his fault, so, y'know… he might as well."

"Seems fair."

"How is it _my_ fault?" asks Chandler, outraged. "I did _everything_ you asked me to, Mon! I was upset too! You weren't the only one grieving, but _you_ didn't have to pack up everything and leave your family on some freakin' whim!"

"It wasn't a whim," whispers Monica, her eyes blazing. "I can't believe you… you… you're…"

"Okay, so we're obviously undecided about where the blame lies," I say quickly. "So tell me and get it over with. Now."

"Okay. Okay," replies Chandler. "You had a sister, Jack," he tells me softly, rubbing his chin with his hands. "A _twin_ sister. She was… she was called Erica…"

"Hey – my birth mother's called… _oh_!" I exclaim. "Okay. I'm there."

"You two were so cute together. Mon would dress you in the matching clothes and everything – she didn't really care that you were a boy and Erica was a girl, y'know? Pink fluffy costumes and all. You used to look…" He paused. "Actually, you looked hideous – but, hey – the thought was there…"

"And what happened to her?" I am fully aware that this is a question that a) I will regret forever, and b) will cause me to appear on a TV chat show talking about how I like to eat other people's skin (that happens!).

Something tells me that this story is _not_ going to have a happy ending (maybe the way that… well, do you _see_ a twin sister anywhere round here? Or maybe just because… when does _anything_ ever go right for me? I mean, seriously…).

"Well…" he begins.

"Wait a second," I interrupt quickly, glancing at the closed door. "Let me just try something, alright?" I pull the door open slightly, and Phoebe (and her cup, naturally), fall straight in, grinning sheepishly (Pheebs, not the cup).

"I'm sorry!" she apologises. "I really am! But I've been waiting a _long_ time to hear this one!"

Chandler raises an eyebrow. "Mon never told you what happened?"

"Does this _look_ like a woman who's in on the story?"

"If she gets to hear, then I get to hear too!" shouts Joey quickly, raising his hand and hopping through the open door.

Chandler leaps to his feet. "Maybe later. This isn't the time," he growls, stalking out of the door and slamming it behind him.

I roll my eyes.

-

'_Cause I'm waiting for tonight,  
__Then waiting for tomorrow,  
__And I'm somewhere in between  
__what is real and just a dream_

-

Yeah – I'm evil for ending it here, I know! I didn't want to reveal everything in one chapter, though… especially since I haven't cough entirely finalised the actual _plot_ yet… This should put a stop to the "Eh? Where's Erica?" reviews, though. Hopefully.

This is not a cliff-hanger, by the way. This is a I-Don't-Want-To-Reveal-The-Whole-Plot-In-One-Paragraph…er.

P.S. If I don't get exactly 3,400,593 reviews for this chapter, I'M NEVER UPDATING AGAIN!!!!!! (or… not).


End file.
